


A Good Read

by alyjude_sideburns



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Academy, Drama, First Time, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyjude_sideburns/pseuds/alyjude_sideburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair has finished his Academy training, but is not to be allowed to graduate with the rest of the cadets. He decides to attend the graduation rehearsal to give himself closure...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Read

 

**A Good Read by alyjude**

 

_**Blair Sandburg's Journal - August, 1999** _

_The academy is not what I thought it would be._

_Don't get me wrong, it's not hard. I'm breezing through, even the practical applications are a breeze. I can shoot better than any other cadet, can outrun almost all of them, only Peter Willoughby is faster, and self defence is turning out to be easy, thanks I'm sure to my size and strength. I fool 'em every time._

_No, it's not what I thought because I actually like it._

_How I'm treated, however, is **exactly** what I thought it would be. I'm basically a pariah, scorned and ignored. They don't even razz me, no hazing, just - ignored. Kinda like home._

_I'd be enjoying it, I would. Very much. I'm learning the little things you miss when you're actually in the thick of things. Actually **being** the hostage kind of blunts your observations and technique flies right out the window. But now? Hey, if I'm ever taken hostage again? Man, I will be totally awesome!_

_I'd like to say things are great on the old home front, but I've promised myself to cut down on the obfuscations, especially the ones to myself. So, honestly? Things are pretty crappy. And it's mostly my fault. I know Jim is pretty closed mouthed - okay, that might be a slight understatement, but his body language is pretty easy to read, and right now it's saying, 'I'm miserable', and I'm right there with him. Miserable._

_I'm not sure what **his** problem is, but I damn well know what mine is... anger. Blazing anger, literally burning a hole in my gut. Me, Blair Sandburg, thirty years old, and I have a fucking ulcer. And **not** the virus kind. The stress kind. The 'keep it inside you until your stomach bleeds out' kind. The kind where because you're keeping this huge anger, this huge hurt, this huge disappointment all bottled up inside, the doctor actually tells you that you have the stomach of a 50 year old stock broker who drinks heavily and that if you don't do something real soon, well, he'll be seeing you from his viewpoint of looking down on you from surgery with your stomach cut open._

_And what could Blair Sandburg have to actually be angry about? Sweet, take-everything-life-dishes-out Blair Sandburg?_

_Jim really believed that I would sell my dissertation._

_He - believed - it._

_He believed I would trick him, would sell it, publish it, make a ton of money and Blair-be-gone. I can make excuses, like he was frightened, scared shitless, but why turn against me? I'm his friend, his buddy, his fucking guide, his fucking shaman. And there it is, this anger. This hurt. I'm a tough man, soon to be a cop, and it shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't._

_But damn, it does._

_Here's a little secret. I have friends. Tons. Okay, not anymore, but I **did** have friends. Scientists, like me, scholars, like me, teachers, like me. And not one of them meant to me what Jim did. Not one. Jim was my best friend. In the whole world. He was my family. And I thought I was his. Was. I just wrote **Was**. Doesn't that say it all?_

_So, like, why am I still at the academy? Hell, I'm still at the loft. Why? Because I'm his fucking guide. And I believe in that. He is a Sentinel and what he does means I cut him some slack. He has a grave responsibility and it weighs heavily on his mind. He constantly fears making an error, one that could cost lives, he constantly fears failure, again, that would cost lives, so a guide is needed. And I'm his guide. I may not be his friend, but I **am** his guide. No, that didn't come out right. I will **always** be his friend, but he doesn't see that. And yet, I know he has good friends, and that is what hurts. He'd never accuse Simon of selling him out. He'd never even think it. Not for one minute. But me?_

_He doesn't know me._

_Isn't that the natural conclusion? He can't know me, because if he did, he would never have believed that I could sell him out. Ah, now we get to the hurt. Get it yet? He doesn't **know** me. Almost four years and he doesn't know me, doesn't know what I'm about. Because I was never important enough to get to know. I was not, to him, what he was to me._

_Man, I just re-read that sentence and even **I** found it confusing._

_I'm just the guy in the room downstairs. The guy who leaves plates with half eaten dinners on the coffee table, papers all over the loft, dirty towels on the floor, who uses up all the hot water if he gets to the shower first, who leaves long strands of hair clogging up the drains, the guy whose car is always breaking down and needs a lift, the guy who listens to weird music and uses weird tribal curatives, who hates football and weightlifting, who eats tofu and drinks algae shakes, who finds nothing wrong with gambling or horseracing, but who hates the idea of greyhound racing, who can handle a gun but believes in gun control, the guy that Jim needs to help him with his senses even after all this time, but who isn't a good friend. I'm just the guide and room mate. I'm the necessary evil Jim has to put up with in his fight for the safety of his tribe._

_So I'm angry. I'm popping two Zantacs a day angry. I'm reduced to a bland diet angry, and thank god I took the physical for the academy weeks ago. I don't remember how to meditate, or how to let go, or how to process. And I don't have anyone to talk to about it. What, I'm gonna ask Naomi? R-i-ight. NOT!_

_Did I mention she's not talking to me right now? No? Well, she isn't. Seems that her desire to make up for sending my dissertation to Sid ended about twenty minutes after it was decided that her baby boy was going to the academy. We didn't fight. We **discussed**. And she left._

_That was five weeks ago._

_The doctor suggested I write in a journal. Why bother to tell her that I've been writing in a journal since the **last** doctor suggested it? Um, that would be about thirteen years ago. No, fourteen. Yeah, fourteen years ago. Sixteen. I mean, I was sixteen when **that** doctor suggested the journal._

_I could go back and read some of those journals, like go back, say, two years... but I don't need to. I know exactly what I wrote two years ago this week. I wrote, "I have the hots for Jim Ellison." Yep, that's what I wrote. Later, I wrote, "Okay, I still have the hots for Jim Ellison, but now, well, now I'm kinda in love with him." Love. Friendship. How come I knew it was about friendship and Jim didn't? How come? What, I'm not good enough?_

_No, that's unfair. Never in a million years would Jim and I have been friends if we hadn't been thrown together because of this Sentinel business. Never. He could have run across me on some case and shrugged his shoulders and cracked a few jokes about me with the rest of the guys back at the station. No, I would never have been someone he called friend. Why should I be surprised? Why should it hurt?_

_I graduate in one week. I didn't have to cut my hair, thanks to Simon. But maybe I should. And maybe... NO! I'm me. Who I am. And if it's not enough, so be it. Besides, do I really believe that cutting my hair and changing how I dress will change me? Will make me somebody Jim would want to be friends with? Nope, not gonna happen. To quote Popeye, "I y'am what I y'am."_

_Did I mention that I don't get to graduate with the rest of the cadets? The commissioner accepted the fact that I would be **in** the class, but he put his foot down when it came to me graduating with the **honest** cadets._

_Did I mention that if I **were** to graduate with them, I'd be graduating at the top of the class? Number one. Me. Naomi's little flowerchild. Did I ever mention that she actually did consider calling me Silvermoon? Good God. Silvermoon Sandburg. Holy shit. God, it felt good to laugh, for just a moment. Silvermoon Sandburg. What would Jim have called me then? He has enough trouble with Blair. Too girly? Too - what?_

_You know, I've never heard him call Joel, Megan, Rafe, Henri or Simon by a nickname. Well, we all call Henri, "H", but that's everybody. Come to think of it, I've never heard him give anyone a nickname, except that joker in the car theft ring. He called him "Chief", right here, in the loft. Is that Freudian or what?_

_I'm thinking way too much here. Like, did Jim ever really **like** me? Should that even be important to me? Should I care? How macho is macho? God, another good laugh. Like I've ever been considered macho? I'm smiling here. So, I can say that I do care. And I find myself asking the same question again._

_Did Jim ever like me?_

_I can make him laugh. I'm the source of humor in his life. And frustration. Tons of frustration._

_He must have trusted me at some point. He trusted me with his life. His secret. He was glad I went to Peru with him. And wasn't he glad when I decided not to go to Borneo? And didn't he bring me back from the dead?_

_But... why did he bring me back? There is a question that has been puzzling me for months. Maybe he didn't have a choice? He sure didn't seem to care afterwards. A Sentinel-Guide thing? Oh, I'm not saying he would want me dead. He didn't hate me that much._

_I just re-read that. Do I think he hated me? Hates me? That's an emotion. A strong emotion. I wrote it, I must, on some level, believe it. God damn. Does he? No, there'd have to be something to hate. I don't, couldn't, foster such an emotion, could I? And why? What have I done? What could I possibly do to initiate such a response? A few wet towels just doesn't cut it._

_God, I'm tired. So fucking tired. And right now, my stomach hurts so fucking bad... and I still have several hours of studying left. Finals, don'tcha know. Finals. Police finals. Police._

_I've got to write this, see what it looks like in black and white:_

_Detective Blair Jacob Sandburg. Blair Jacob Sandburg, Detective._

_I like it. No, I **love** it. Maybe I'll find something in the above, something to help me forget what I'm not. Be of real use, not just Jim's guide, but maybe Jim's **real** partner. Earn his... respect? But even without him in the picture, I love the idea of being a detective._

_All the flower children of the sixties just turned over in their graves. The ones who are alive are CEOs now._

_Wait, before I sign off, I just have to write one more thing:_

_Detective Silvermoon Sandburg._

_Man, I need another Zantac._

_August 28, 1999 - 11:30pm_

*****

He reached up, rubbed his jaw and found something wet, something - salty, running down his cheek.

Tears. He was - crying. Silently, quietly crying. His soul, aching, his heart, cracking.

Gently, Jim Ellison closed the thick book marked, "Journal - #28 - 1999".

Jim Ellison had cried twice in his life. Twice in forty plus years. This made three times. Men don't cry. They can hurt, but they can't cry. They mustn't show the weakness. Fuck the weakness. And hadn't he learned anything from Sandburg in all these years?

He palmed his eyes, rubbing hard, trying to end the stinging pain, and his breath, skipping, hitching, trying to catch up to itself, and his soul... If he could just mend his soul...

He should never have gone into Sandburg's room. But he had laundry to drop off. He should never have picked up the book, lying, open, face down on the floor. But he was a well known neat freak. He should never have read it, once he went into the room with laundry, once he'd picked it up from the floor.

And he was thanking God he had.

Thank God he'd gone into the room with laundry, noticed the book, picked it up and read it. No excuse for reading it, but those first words, about the academy, well, he'd been worried sick about Blair and the academy, about his friend and the tough world of cadets, of guns, of procedures, of laws, of fighting, of defending oneself and the good citizens of Cascade.

Worried sick about what it meant to his friend the anthropologist, the teacher, the peace and brotherhood loving Blair Sandburg. Worried sick about why Blair Sandburg, his _friend_ , was doing this, was becoming a cop, a pig, a policeman, the man.

So he'd read it. And he'd gotten a great deal more than he'd bargained for, no doubt.

For one thing, he'd discovered that Blair was just fine with the Academy, that it was James Ellison he had the problem with, and James Ellison couldn't blame him one bit. Blair understood everything, and he understood nothing. Which pretty much summed up Blair Sandburg and his relationship with the closed mouthed Ellison.

And did any of this matter? Did the whys, the reasons, matter? No. What mattered was that he, James Ellison, had to get his butt over to the academy, this fine Saturday morning, and straighten things out with his friend. His best friend. Because he knew that's where Sandburg was right now, at the academy. Because it was September 4th, 1999, and tonight at six o'clock Blair's class would graduate, without Blair, so he was there now, watching the rehearsals. That last part was an assumption on Jim's part, because Blair had left a note on the kitchen table telling Jim that he would be at Cleveland Hall, and since he'd taken his last final two days ago and there was no reason for Blair to be at the Academy today, and because Jim really did know his best friend, he knew that Blair was taking his small part of the graduation and giving it to himself. The rehearsal.

He got up off the bed, the bed in Blair's room (where he shouldn't have been) and moved, ancient, into the bathroom, where he splashed cold water onto his face and looked at the man in the mirror, and wondered - not for the first or last time - just who the fuck he was, and how could he have screwed up so badly, and how - knowing full well the gifts his father had bestowed upon him, gifts like repression and stoicism and keeping your emotions in check and don't let the other guy see you sweat... and don't do anything that could be construed as _different_ and don't under any circumstances cry - could he _still_ have managed to foul up his relationship with the one person who meant more to him than anything or anyone else?

Blair had been right, and Blair had been wrong. Jim had never really believed that the younger man had purposely sold his dissertation. That had been his fear and hurt talking. But he _had_ believed that Blair would accept. Would take the brass ring and go. He'd believed _that_ all along. That one day Blair Sandburg would go. And he had to tell Blair the truth. And try to explain that it wasn't a lack of _knowing_ his partner, but rather the absence of believing in anyone that deeply. Would Blair understand? Forgive?

Hell, did _he_ understand? Did he forgive himself?

How the fuck could he explain this to Sandburg?

And no, Jim didn't believe in anyone that deeply - not Simon, not Steven, not his father. But gradually he'd come to believe in himself, thanks to Blair, so if Blair had given him that gift, the gift of self knowledge, why was he still testing Blair? Why this _need_ to test Blair? And how much would he throw at Blair before he finally believed in him?

He'd threatened to pull his friendship over the first chapter of the infamous dissertation, he'd thrown him out of his home, and again threatened to pull his friendship after finding out about Alex, always the friendship, always pulling it, like it was tangible, like there was no room for mistakes, like telling Blair, "Play by my rules and I'll be your friend, but if you don't, you're history", when what he should have been saying was, "I'm your friend for life, it's unconditional, like my love."

'Like my love'. Another issue to be dealt with, and now. Because his feelings for Blair were equal to, or greater than, Blair's feelings for him.

The Academy. Now.

He moved out of the bathroom, grabbed his jacket and keys, opened the front door, and bumped into Simon.

The two men collided, then Simon stepped back, shaking his head, and muttered something about sentinels and hearing and always opening the door before he knocked, but not this time, oh, no, this time he tries to kill him...

"Sorry, Simon. My mind was elsewhere. You okay?"

"I'm fine, no thanks to you. And where's the fire?"

"I just... need, have to... I'm going to the Academy," he finally finished.

"The Academy? I'm actually here to take you guys out, to get Blair's mind _off_ the Academy, off graduation. Thought we'd pick up Daryl and head over to the batting cages."

"I think Sandburg's watching the rehearsals. I was on my way over there to, well... "

"Two brilliant minds? Look, let's go get him and give the kid a great day," Simon held up his hand as Jim started to say something, then added, "I know, he's no kid. But to me, he is. I'm old enough to be his father, God help me."

And Jim found himself thinking that maybe this was the way. Get Blair in a good mood, have some fun, then tonight, alone, they could talk.

He nodded his agreement and added, "Let's go."

*****

Commander Michael Schilling sat at his desk and looked across the mahogany surface to the man seated across from him. Commissioner Arthur Wilder.

"I'm surprised to see you here so early, Art. The ceremony doesn't begin until six."

Wilder smiled his best politician's smile, one that was totally wasted on the Commander as the two men had grown up together and Wilder was now married to Schilling's sister.

"I wanted a few minutes with our fifth generation cadet. We're celebrating some history tonight, Mike, with not only the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Police Academy, but the graduation of our first fifth generation cop. There isn't likely to be any time later, what with reporters and family members clamoring around their graduates, so I snuck in after a round of 'losing golf' with the Mayor. You don't have a problem with that, do you?" He was smiling, knowing full well that Mike couldn't care less.

"No problem. Peter Willoughby is a fine man, an excellent cadet and will undoubtedly do his family proud. And the opportunity to be personally congratulated by the Commissioner, well, I'm sure he'll be honored." This last remark was followed by a snort, and both men laughed heartily.

As the laughter died down, Wilder asked, "Just tell me that young Willoughby is at or near the top of his class?"

Schilling had been tilted back in his chair, relaxed and smiling, but at Wilder's words, he sat abruptly forward, a frown creasing his distinguished features.

"Well, technically speaking... he's number two. Technically speaking."

Wilder's head tilted, his eyes narrowing. "Mike? Someone is either number one, or not. What's with this 'technical' crap?"

"Technically, there is another cadet who is actually, technically, number one. But as he isn't, technically, graduating with the rest of his class, you could say that Willoughby is, of those actually graduating, number one in his class."

"Technically speaking, of course?" Wilder quizzed, with just a touch of sarcasm.

"Yes. Technically speaking."

"Cut the crap and spit it out."

"Sandburg."

That took the wind out of Wilder's sails. "Sandburg? You're telling me that Blair Sandburg is number one in his class?"

"Technically. Yes."

"The long-haired anthropologist is number one. Number fucking one. Well, I'll be damned." Wilder looked up then, catching Schilling's eye, and he smiled, ruefully. "You realize that I agreed to Simon's request because I didn't think Sandburg would ever finish, let alone come in at number one."

"I figured as much. But you shouldn't be surprised. The record speaks for itself and the record says that Sandburg has done more than his share, contribution wise, for Major Crimes. And he was a damn fine cadet. He earned his ranking."

"That seems to be in direct conflict with what we know of him - after all, he did falsify an academic paper, which in turn nearly tore the Police Department apart. If Simon Banks weren't a trusted friend, Sandburg would have been out on his ass. Period."

"Yes, well, all evidence to the contrary, Blair Sandburg has been an exemplary cadet, in spite of going it alone. He's had no help, no friends, every instructor has made his six weeks a living hell, every cadet has done the same. Yet he perservered. He succeeded. That doesn't sound like a cheat to me. And Art, if I had my way? _Detective_ Sandburg would graduate with his class."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Didn't Susan work with Ellison and Sandburg at one point?"

"Yes, and her opinion of Sandburg was very high - and I trust her opinion."

Before Wilder could respond, a disembodied voice spoke through the intercom system, informing Schilling that his wife had just arrived. At a nod from Wilder, Schilling responded, "Thank you, Lucy, show her in."

The door opened and Susan Finkleman Schilling walked in, smiling broadly as she noticed Commissioner Wilder.

"Art, what a surprise."

Both men stood, and as Susan leaned in and gave Wilder a chaste kiss on the cheek, he said, "I'm begining to feel unappreciated, or as if I never get down here. It's always such a surprise when I visit."

"Art, when was your last visit?" Schilling inquired.

"Seven months ago, darling. Lieutenant Wilson's retirement." Susan spoke for Wilder.

"Yes, well. Like I said, it's not as if I never visit. And right now, I'm fast running out of time, if I'm going to get a chance to speak with Willoughby. Are they down at Cleveland Hall?"

Schilling looked at his watch and nodded, "Yes, rehearsal started about fifteen minutes ago." He turned to his wife and asked, "Why don't we go down with Art? Give the graduates a real thrill?"

"I'm game, but how you think seeing us would thrill those young cadets, I'll never know."

Schilling laughed as he came around his desk and put his arm around his new wife, and the three people left the office, chattering and laughing.

*****

At the front gate to the academy, a K-9 unit pulled up and was waved in, the officer at the gate barely registering the policeman behind the wheel.

The K-9 unit continued up the long drive, and when he came to a road marked "utility vehicles only", he turned in and continued for several feet until he came to a small building. The officer got out, looked in both directions, then slipped a magnetic card into the door lock and with a whoosh, the door opened. The officer slipped inside.

The building he'd entered was the brain of the Academy. The phones, alarms, gates - everything was operated automatically by the computers in this room. The Cascade Police Academy was state of the art. Unfortunately, humans still guarded gates and programmed computers. And humans could so easily undo all that state of the art technology.

The officer spent the next several minutes setting the room up so that on a predetermined time schedule, _he_ would, in fact, be the person to undo this particular state of the art technology. He placed several small bundles in strategic spots, and when done, nodded at his handiwork and left the same way he'd entered.

He climbed into the car, backed down the same road, backed onto the main drive and continued through the grounds, following the signs that pointed the way to Cleveland Hall. At one point, he passed three people, two men and one woman, walking, laughing, completely unaware that someone who didn't belong was driving so easily down their roads, on Academy property, moving unchallenged, and who had only violence on his mind. The officer gave the three people barely a glance, but he recognized one of them. He recognized Commissioner Wilder, and he smiled.

*****

Blair Sandburg sat on the catwalk overlooking the small stage, and watched as his fellow cadets practised the march up to the podium, pretended to receive diplomas, then walked back to their seats.

They'd been at it for the last fifteen minutes, and considering that the youngest cadet was twenty-three and the eldest was thirty-five, they all acted as though it were a high school graduation, instead of twenty-two police cadets. Twenty two men and women who, on Monday, would hit the streets with guns, ready to defend, with their lives if necessary, the good people of Cascade. But right now, they were still cadets, and so they laughed and pushed and jostled and joked. And Blair would have liked to have been with them. Joking, laughing.

But instead, he watched.

Cleveland Hall was the smaller of the two auditoriums contained within Academy grounds, with capacity for about two hundred. It had stadium seating and was used, both to welcome new cadets and to graduate the cadets who made it through the grueling twelve week course.

Of course, in any class, there were exceptions. These were the cadets called, "The half dozen", men and women who came to the Academy with previous training, and who spent only six of the twelve weeks in the program. Like Sandburg. And Jim Ellison before him. But these "half dozen" graduated with their class... unless they were Blair Sandburg.

It had been foolish to come up here. To hide. To watch. But he'd wanted to take part in the ceremony somehow, to bring closure to his weeks of training. He already had his shield and his gun. Simon had given them to him on Friday, after receiving confirmation of Blair's status. He had both with him now, his shield resting in his jacket pocket, his number already memorized, 5172, and his gun, snug in its shoulder holster, strapped across his chest. Oddly enough, it felt - right.

The doors at the front of the hall opened, so Blair leaned forward and was surprised to see Commander Schilling walking up the aisle, Captain Finkleman - or rather, Mrs Schilling - next to him, and behind them both, Commissioner Wilder.

A murmur of approval swept through the cadets, and Peter Willoughby stood and began to applaud, the other cadets quickly joining him. Commissioner Wilder shook hands, smiled, and even spoke to a few as he made his way up to the stage.

At that moment, the side doors opened and Captain Simon Banks and Detective Jim Ellison entered the hall.

Jim had found the heartbeat he wanted, looked up and immediately spotted Sandburg and gave a small beckoning motion. Blair, puzzled, was about to turn around and move toward the stairs when he noticed that someone else had followed the Commissioner into the hall. An officer, but with a difference. In one hand, he held a gun, and in the other, a grenade.

There was no time to give a warning. The officer raised his gun and fired into the air.

The sound bounced around the hall, and all eyes turned to the man with the gun.

"THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. I HAVE NO DESIRE TO HURT ANYONE. YET. PLEASE NOTE THAT IN MY LEFT HAND IS A GRENADE. DO AS I SAY, AND I KEEP IT PINNED."

Unfortunately, one instructor near the steps to the stage decided to make a move, to try and slip out, but the grenade toting officer saw him and brought his gun down and in line to fire. Simon was nearest the instructor and made a move to stop him, to protect him, but Ellison was faster. The officer fired and Jim went down.

Twenty-two cadets, three instructors, the Commissioner, the Commanding Officer of the Cascade Police Department, his wife - an ex-police captain herself - the Captain of Major Crimes and one wounded detective. All hostages. And now, not a single gun among them.

And several feet above them all, Blair Sandburg, the only armed officer, stood, thinking and watching, watching as Simon pressed his hand over the wound above Jim's heart, and watched the blood leaking through hard pressed fingers.

*****

Blair couldn't allow himself to concentrate on Jim's blood. He'd be paralyzed if he did. Instead, he spoke softly, hoping Jim could hear him.

"use the dial, Jim. turn down the pain, you can do it."

He could see Jim's eyes close momentarily, then in a quick, hidden gesture, his thumb came up and he let a smile dart across his now pale face. Blair gave a tiny sigh of relief, then concentrated on the man, the man with the grenade.

The maniac had already told all the cadets to get up on their knees in their seats, and put their hands up, and clasped behind their heads. Susan and the three instructors were told to drop, face down on the ground, their hands also held behind their heads.

That left Simon, Schilling, Wilder and Jim. The man advanced toward Simon and Jim, and Blair felt his heart thud into his throat as he silently pulled his gun and readied himself.

The man stopped a few feet from Simon, who still knelt over Jim, hand plugging the hole, slowing the flow of blood. A roll of electricians' tape was tossed at Simon.

"Get up," the maniac demanded.

"He's bleeding, I need... "

"You can get up and do exactly as I say or a bullet in the brain will stop the bleeding in his arm."

Simon braced Jim against the wall, looked into the pale blue eyes which darted up to the roof and with Simon's body blocking the crazed man, Jim mouthed, "B-l-a-i-r". Banks gave a slight nod, and pushed himself up as Jim put his own good hand over the wound.

As he turned to face the grenade toting man, he was motioned to pick up the tape and as he did, the man ordered, "Now, secure Commissioner Wilder to that chair on the stage, and make sure it's tight, or someone will die."

Simon quickly did as he was told and, following instructions, he taped Wilder's ankles to each leg, then his arms behind him and more tape across the man's chest.

"Good, now the good Commander. To that chair, the same way, but back to back."

Again Simon complied, eye contact with Schilling showing that the Commander was only worried for his wife. When Simon finished, he faced their captor, who immediately said, "CATCH!" as a small, square object, pulled from a pocket, sailed through the air. Simon deftly caught it and was immediately very glad as he realized he'd just caught a small bomb. Four pieces of dynamite, wrapped with tape and wires plugged into a small clock face.

"Good catch. Now, tape my little package to the space where the tops of the chairs meet. And I'd be very cautious, if I were you."

Simon carefully did as instructed.

"You do good work. Identify yourself."

Simon straightened to his full 6 feet, 5 inches and answered, "Captain Simon Banks, Major Crimes. And you would be?"

"Another Captain? My, my. And who I am is unimportant, it's my brother who counts. My _dead_ brother. Killed two years ago, right here, at the Academy. A cadet, killed by his fellow cadets. And yes, I'm a little pissed. Just a bit. Pissed enough to finally do something about it. Oh, and if anyone gets any heroic ideas?" The man lowered the hand with the grenade, while at the same time, keeping the gun leveled on Wilder, dropped the grenade into the pocket of the jacket he wore and pulled out a small, black box.

"This is a timer. Three buttons. One for the little gift resting so nicely on those chairs, one for the little something I've left just over by the lobby doors, and finally, one for this," and he unzipped his jacket to reveal the vest he wore, with more than a dozen sticks of dynamite, more wires, gears and a clock face.

"Yes, I'm fully prepared to die to bring my brother's killers to justice. In fact, I expect to die. Just not alone. And if you're hoping for a quick rescue? Don't. I already blew the computer room. There are no communication capabilities and the Academy has now experienced a complete lockdown. Captain Banks, please join the others on the ground, hands clasped behind your head."

Simon looked steadily back at the man, then walked calmly off the stage.

"STOP NOW."

Simon kept walking, but he addressed the terrorist, "This man is wounded and I intend to stay with him and keep him from bleeding to death. Period. I'll be on the ground and no threat." He reached Jim's side and quickly dropped back down to his knees, adding, "So if you want to shoot, go ahead, but it'd be a waste of a fine bullet."

The man didn't shoot. He scowled, but he didn't shoot.

"Fine, death will come soon enough. But if you twitch, death will come sooner than necessary."

Simon's hand went back to the wound but he was grateful to note that the bleeding had slowed considerably. He wanted to look up, to make some kind of contact with Sandburg, but he didn't dare, so he just looked at Ellison, who nodded slightly and smiled wryly. Their fate rested in the hands of an ex-hippie, ex-anthropologist and, somehow, with that smile Jim was saying that while it might be ironic, he wouldn't have it any other way. Simon couldn't have agreed more.

And above them all, Blair Sandburg concentrated, memorized the bombs, the man, the layout, all positions and then moved silently to a recessed corner behind him and pulled out his cell phone. He punched in Joel Taggert's number and after three rings, the man answered.

_Taggert._

Keeping his voice low, Blair answered, "Joel, Sandburg. I'm at the Academy, Cleveland Hall..." Taggert interrupted before Blair could finish.

_We just received a taped call from someone named Winston. Says he's got the Commissioner and plans to kill him if we don't pay him two mil._

"He's not lying about having the Commissioner. He also has Commander Schilling and Susan. Oh, and then there's the small matter of twenty-two cadets, three instructors, Simon and Jim, who's been hit. I'm above them, on the lighting platform. Needless to say, this Winston doesn't know I'm here, but Jim does. I need your help, Joel. He's wearing a vest, wired to dynamite, and there is a similar device attached to the two chairs on which he has Schilling and Wilder. There's apparently another device attached to the lobby doors."

_How good a view do you have?_

"There's a pair of binoculars up here, what do you need to know?"

_Describe the vest, all the parts, the trigger device and the device on the chairs._

Blair carefully reached back and plucked the binoculars off their peg, and moving as swiftly and silently as possible, he crept back to the edge of the platform and trained the glasses on the man below. For the next few minutes he spoke softly, describing the vest, the wires, their colors, the mechanism attached to the clock, and everything else Joel requested. Occasionally, Taggert would interrupt, ask a question, then add a, "Good", or "That helps."

_Sandburg, we're not dealing with anything sophisticated. It's a gear driven device on his vest and on the chair, and undoubtedly the lobby doors, and a simple, battery operated trigger. You've already noticed the timer, the clock face and that it's counting down. From what you've described, you and the others have less than twenty minutes to live. His tape said he would call back at twelve-fifteen, that's over thirty minutes from now._

"So he's going out and taking this building and everyone in it with him."

_I'd say so._

"How do I stop the mechanism on the vest?"

_You just have to gum up the gears, then pull the red wire._

"Gum them up? What? I'm supposed to spit a wad of bubble gum at him?"

_Ya got some?_

Sandburg thought, his mind racing and something clicked as he remembered something he'd seen on one of the seats down below.

"Joel, would Silly String work?"

_Silly String?_

"You know, that stuff we shot at you last month, on your birthday?"

The silence on the other end of the phone told him that Joel was thinking, remembering. _Yeah, yeah, that would work. Cover the gears with the stuff and you'd shut it down._

"The trigger?"

_You've got to get it away from him._

"If I just shoot it? Would that work or set it off?"

_It's battery driven, you blow a hole through it and you render it useless._

A plan had been formulating in his fertile brain. it was risky, but with less than twenty minutes... it was the only way he could see to end this.

"Okay, Joel. I'm gonna see what I can do. You guys on your way? And an ambulance, for Jim?"

_Yes. Silent._

"ETA?"

_Eight minutes._

"Tell 'em to hit the sirens when they pull in, I'll need the distraction."

_You got it. Eight minutes, sirens. And Blair? Good luck._

"You just make sure those EMT's are ready for Jim."

_10-4._

Sandburg shut down his cell, peeked carefully over the edge and spotted the gym bag he'd seen earlier. A gym bag, unzipped, with two cans of Silly String resting on top, undoubtedly planned for use that night.

He put down the binoculars, placed the cellphone back in his pocket, his movements deliberate, then stood and spoke for his Sentinel's benefit.

"Jim, I have a plan, but I'll need a distraction. When I give you the word, have Simon get the man's attention. We only have a few minutes."

He watched and was rewarded by another "thumbs up" sign from his partner.

Jim began to cough and Simon immediately leaned forward, to try to ease his detective's pain and was surprised when Jim began to whisper, before their captor stopped him with a yell.

Carefully, Blair moved back to the stairs that would take him down to the lobby, and to the man with the bomb.

*****

Ten patrol cars, SWAT and the bomb squad converged on the Academy, and knowing that the gates could not be opened, they were prepared, on signal, to bash through them. Taggert sat in the lead car, his eyes glued to his watch. Three minutes to go, then sirens. They were early, a tribute to the kind of speed generated when some of their own were in trouble.

*****

Blair stood outside the doors that opened into the hall, breathing deeply, his hand poised, ready to push the door in...

"Jim, now."

He listened and was immediately rewarded by Simon's booming voice. He peered through the crack between the doors and saw Simon stand and address Winston.

"Just what happened to your brother that you feel the need to kill?" Simon demanded, moving carefully, manuevering the man so that his back was to the lobby.

As the man spoke, ordering Simon back down, Blair slipped in, unoticed, stepped quickly to the gym bag, grabbed the can of Silly String, and holding it behind him, he advanced, his gun held firmly, arm outstretched.

Restless movement, frantic whispers, all alerted Winston that something was going on behind him and he backed up and turned, to see a long haired young man, gun aimed at the stage, walking calmly down the aisle.

"FREEZE!" Winston bellowed.

"FUCKING FREEZE YOURSELF. AND GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY, I WANT COMMISSIONER WILDER!" Blair bellowed right back as he continued his relentless move down the red carpeted aisle.

He was thirty feet from his goal.

"SO I'M NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO GRADUATE WITH THESE PRICKS? I'M NUMBER ONE, BUT I CAN'T FUCKING GRADUATE? MAYBE I DON'T FUCKING AGREE WITH YOUR DECISION."

He was twenty feet from his goal, and Winston was so stunned, that he hadn't moved.

"I CAN OUTSHOOT, OUTDRIVE, OUTTHINK ANY OF YOU, BUT I'M NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO WALK UP AND PICK UP A SHITTY DIPLOMA?"

Only ten more to go, ten more feet and he'd be close enough. He could really use those sirens now...

"YOU KNOW WHAT I THINK? I THINK MAYBE I SHOULD SHOW YOU JUST HOW GOOD I AM WITH THIS GUN. MAYBE A SMALL HOLE? IN THE COMMISSIONER'S FOREHEAD? THINK THAT WOULD CONVINCE YOU I SHOULD GRADUATE?"

The blast of police sirens split the air and Winston panicked, looked around him, startled, and that was all Blair needed. The arm with the can came up and as his gun hand swung away from the stage and centered on the man's right hand, he popped the can open and let loose.

The goo hit the gears, clinging tenaciously, and in seconds, the gears were competely covered, effectively gummed up with a child's toy - Silly String. At the same moment, Winston realized he'd been duped and his finger moved to one of the buttons on the trigger in his right hand, but Blair was ready and he fired.

The bullet tore through flesh, bone, plastic and batteries. The man screamed in agony and fell back, the trigger dropping harmlessly to the ground. Blair stepped in and with the gun now leveled on the middle of the man's head, he first plucked the red wire out, then reached into the jacket pocket, grabbed the grenade, then stepped back.

It was three minutes after twelve.

"CASCADE P.D., ON YOUR KNEES, HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD, NOW!"

The man stumbled down, raising both arms straight up. Blair turned his head, but never took his eyes off his captive.

"Uh, Simon? I could use a little help here?"

Sandburg's words seemed to energize the big man who, up to then and like everyone else, had been staring, open-mouthed, as Blair Silly-Stringed an armed terrorist. He moved quickly to the man, pulled out his cuffs and was about to restrain the man when an "harumph" from Sandburg stopped him. He turned, eyebrow raised.

"Um, the vest?"

"Fuck." Shaking his head in disgust with himself, he quickly - and carefully - removed the vest and gently set it down before going back to the task of cuffing their 'suspect' and reading him his rights.

Cadets began to move then, and on the stage, Susan and the three instructors were busy carefully moving the other device and releasing Commissioner Wilder and Commander Schilling. People began to talk, to move, to stare. Blair ignored it all and after holstering his gun, he moved to his partner's side and dropped down beside him.

"You okay, man?"

"Small hole. In - out. Felt worse."

"So brave. Bite the bullet, man, bite the bullet." As he spoke, Blair had begun to unbutton the shirt and carefully pull it away.

"Bite me, Sandburg."

"Anytime. Oh, man, this is just a stupid flesh wound. You should've taken this guy down yourself."

"Watching you was more fun. Listening to you was even better."

Blair had already torn a couple of strips of Jim's shirt and was stuffing it against the wound as he smiled at his Sentinel.

"You think I'm in trouble now? I did threaten to put a bullet hole in the Commissioner."

"Oh, you're in big trouble. I don't think they'll let you graduate now."

"Tsk-tsk."

Two pairs of blue eyes connected and both smiled wickedly.

At the same moment, the doors were pushed open and officers poured in, only to find the situation well in hand, the crisis over, the bomb defused, the suspect cuffed and requiring medical attention. But not before one Jim Ellison.

EMTs moved to the injured detective and Blair stood and stepped aside, but never took his eyes off them or the task at hand. They worked quickly and efficiently, the wound clean, loss of blood their main concern. A gurney was rolled in, but in typical Ellison fashion, he waved it off and insisted they help him stand, that he'd go out on his own two feet. Sandburg just shook his head and smiled.

Taggert walked up to Blair, a huge grin on his face.

"Damn if that silly stuff didn't work. I swear, you're a genius, kid, a real genius. You did us proud."

Jim put his arm across Sandburg's shoulders, smiled down at him and added, "Damn right he did. Now, Chief, how about giving your partner a hand out of here?"

The two men moved out, Jim leaning heavily on his partner's strong shoulders. The cadets moved aside, and all other movement in the hall seemed to stop as all eyes turned to watch the two men as they exited the building, the EMT's bringing up the rear. Simon fell in behind them, smiling broadly, and shaking his head in wonder.

*****

The graduation ceremony was postponed, a new date to be announced later. Winston turned out to be John Winston, an ex-resident of Bulton's, a psychiatric hospital in Seattle. His brother, Randy Winston, had indeed been a cadet, and had been killed in a tragic accident that had taken place on the skid pan, when he'd lost control of his squad car while practising high speed skid control. A thorough investigation had cleared Cascade PD Maintenance - the brakes had been in excellent shape. Young Mr. Winston had simply lost control, and flipped his car. Commissioner Wilder had ruled it an accident and the file had been closed.

It took three days to bring the Academy back online, to repair the damage done by Winston's little packages. Improvements in security were talked about and subseqently implemented.

Behind closed doors, talks occured between Simon Banks, Commander Schilling and Commissioner Wilder. The results were to be revealed at the same time that the new date for the graduation would be announced.

Jim Ellison didn't stay overnight at the hospital, in spite of the recommendations of his doctors. No surprise there. The wound wasn't serious, and with rest and care, he'd be on desk duty in one week, and returned to active duty within two.

But that still left a journal to be discussed.

*****

**Four Days After the Assault on the Academy:**

"I don't give a shit, Jim. You'll eat this salad, or starve. Doctor's orders."

"So I'll starve. I feel like a hamburger. A plain, old, greasy hamburger."

"You look old, you look greasy, but you don't look anything like a hamburger. Well, your arm did, but that's it."

Blair plopped the tray down in front of the stubborn and convalescing patient and sat down across from him.

"I'm no hamburger, I'm steak. Grade AA. Prime."

"You're Grade AA, alright, but it ain't steak."

Jim played around with his salad, admitting to himself that it did indeed look good. Good enough to eat. He'd been skirting around his feelings for the last four days, waiting for the opportunity to open up a discussion between him and his partner. Sandburg had been busy taking care of him, and taking sudden phone calls from the same cadets who'd spent six weeks ignoring the hell out of him. It seems saving lives went a long way toward the great thaw.

Jim forked a mound of the greens into his mouth and gazed over at his partner. For all their bantering and joking, Sandburg was not his usual self. And Jim wondered how he'd missed it before, how it had taken reading that journal to wake him up, to see the lack of enthusiasm, the lack of life in his partner's eyes.

Maybe now was the time. No, there was no _maybe_ about it.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "Chief, we need to talk. Scratch that, _I_ need to talk. To, um, apologize. To explain."

Blair looked up from the magazine he'd been thumbing through, frowned and cocked his head. "Explain? Explain what, Jim? Apologize for what?"

The fork began to move restlessly through the lettuce, moving the pieces around, finally spearing a cherry tomato. Jim focused on the tomato as he answered.

"I never believed you sent your dissertation to Sid. Never."

The magazine hit the table. "You could have fooled me, Jim."

"I know. There is no excuse. None. But... I did believe you'd take the offer. It was your dream."

Blair looked down, concentrating suddenly on his shoe laces. "It was. Once. A long time ago. Fame, fortune. Blair Sandburg, brilliant anthropologist. But then I actually met a Sentinel. A human being. No longer abstract." Blair looked up and captured Jim's gaze, then continued, "I didn't invent Sentinels, I didn't create them. _I_ did nothing. Just stumbled onto one. No fame there. But then the dream died. End of story."

"You did more than _stumble_. I'd be dead now, if not for you. And if not dead? Then insane."

"Because I told you what you were. Showed you. Big fucking deal."

"You proved Burton's theory."

"So?"

This was not going well.

"Blair, how did you always know what to tell me? How did you always know what I needed? How did you know about memory sense? Piggybacking? None of that was mentioned by Burton. Hell, I didn't even learn anything like that from Incacha."

Sandburg stood and walked to the balcony. He stared out the window as he answered, "Common sense, Jim. Nothing more."

"Common sense. I don't think so. It's a natural instinct with you. Remember when you told me about how you tried to get Alex to focus her senses in the Rose Garden? Not unlike what you tried with me? That first day?"

The back remained stiff, unyielding. "Your point, Jim?"

"It didn't work. Not with Alex. But it worked immediately with me. Why?"

"How the hell should I know? Maybe because she was corrupt, not a genuine Sentinel. Maybe because you're a fucking genius. I - don't - know."

"I do. You're _my_ guide. The techniques are a natural instinct, but the response is dependant on the person giving the information. Incacha couldn't control my senses, not in eighteen months. But you did. Could."

The shoulders seemed to slump, the head bowed down. Blair was thinking. Jim could almost see the wheels turning, the gears meshing in his friend's brain. Sandburg turned, his eyes wide, and Jim saw, for the first time in a long time, excitement and - hope.

"You believe that? You think... "

"Yes, Blair, I do. It's common sense."

"All that's ever been written is that a Sentinel needs this back up person, this individual to help, to... "

"To make sure his Sentinel stays focused, stays in control," Jim finished for him.

Blair moved back to the chair, sat down and leaned excitedly forward, his eyes alight, the fire of the scholar burning bright once again.

"So maybe, this guide thing, is, maybe, important to you?"

"I wouldn't make it without you. Alex didn't have a guide. Can you imagine what would have happened if she'd had someone like you beside her?"

"You're not just - saying all this? You really believe it?"

"Blair, I'd say anything to make sure that I never lose you. And not because I'm a Sentinel and you're my guide, that's an indisputable fact, as far as I'm concerned - and you recognize that responsibilty, it's why you're still here. But Blair, I _need_ you if I'm to make it through each day, each night. The simple task of living is made easier by your presence in my life, in my - heart. You are my best friend, my only _real_ friend. And I've finally learned that you will never fail me by the simple fact of your friendship. A friendship you give freely. That I should have been giving to you, as freely. But now I _know_ that I can trust you with who and what I am. That I can trust you with my... love. And Blair, I've never been able to say that about anybody."

Jim couldn't remember a time when he'd said so much, or needed so desperately for someone to believe him. He watched, and catalogued his guide's response, found Blair's heart starting to accelerate, his pupils eclipsing his irises as his mouth opened, shut, opened, shut yet again.

"I love you, Blair. As in, I could eat you whole, pin you to the bed upstairs, keep you there for weeks at a time, never leave your side, as in want to touch you, reassure myself that you exist, that you're real, that you're here, want to touch you every chance I get, as in want to climb down your throat, want to feel the blood moving through your veins and arteries, to _know_ you're mine and I'm yours. I want to bury myself in you, I want my fingers trapped by that hair, and I want nothing more than to lose myself in your eyes, to fall in and never come out."

The silence stretched, and Jim finally knew what an eternity would feel like, he was living it now, waiting... but finally, Blair spoke.

"You read my journal."

Jim nodded. "It was a good read, Blair. A necessary read. To find out how you felt about me, to realize the hurt and anger I'd caused, but to know as well that you love me as I love you... I'm ashamed that I read it, but I'm eternally grateful as well. I would do it again. In a New York minute."

"What the fuck does that mean, anyway? A New York minute? Is a New York minute faster than anyone else's? They operate on a different clock than the rest of us?"

Jim smiled broadly and pushed himself up and off the couch, and moved in two strides, to his love's side.

"I don't know, Chief, I don't know. But it worked, for me. It worked. Did it work for you?"

They stood, inches apart, Jim gazing down, Blair's head tilted back...

"It was... pretty good. I think it worked. But if you must know, the pinning me to the bed part really sold me, and the burying yourself in me? _That_ really tipped the scale."

"So I'm in? We're a done deal?"

"You're not in anything yet. But yes, it's a done deal. Guide, partner, friend, lover. That's me. For life."

"So you forgive me? For ever believing... " A hand on his mouth stopped him.

"Love is never having to say you're sorry," Blair said sweetly.

"Fuck. I hated that line."

"Me too. Love is really getting a good payback. And I intend to do just that."

They looked at each other, smiling, then Jim lowered his head and let his lips rest gently against Blair's, but gentle was apparently not what Blair wanted. His hands came up, locked on either side of Jim's head, his lips parted, his tongue darted out and pressed, lovingly, and Jim parted his lips and Blair moved in with both his tongue and his body, moved in hard, aggressively, and the kiss deepened, both men exploring, warring, tasting.

A small moan escaped from deep within Blair. The spark of passion, kindled by the kiss, flared up inside Jim, threatening to consume him, and he found himself surrounded by the smell of Blair, the feel of him, the taste of him, and Jim's body demanded more, so much more, but Blair was feeling the same needs and hands began to rip, to tear, to pull urgently, frantically, the need to be skin to skin, flesh against flesh, overwhelming both men, and Blair began to urge Jim down, heedless of his injury, and both men started to drop, until finally, _finally,_ they were on the floor, Jim hovering above Blair, and they parted, the kiss ending, as they struggled, laughing now, out of jeans and sweats, out of boxers and briefs, their eyes never leaving each other, and as clothes were tossed the two men gazed hungrily at the flesh that was now visible, the revealed bodies, seen so many times, coveted for months and years, now finally, irrevocably theirs for the taking, for the touching, for the exploring - and fingers began to do just that, soon followed by lips.

Jim marveled at the strength, the muscles, was captured by the chest, moving in, out, breathing shallow, at the soft, wiry hair covering the chest, and his hands moved down, claiming, memorizing, travelled to the hips, across the nearly flat stomach that now trembled at Jim's touch, then down lower, fingers ghosting around the springy pubic hair, and for the first time he touched Blair's cock, and it was hot, silky, alive, hard, and jumped at that touch, and he had to have it, to taste it, so he gently lowered himself, heard the groan, realized it was his own, his desire to wipe every hurt from his love, the desire to have Blair buried in him driving him, and he took Blair into his mouth, felt the body beneath jerk up in such surprise, and hands clamped down on his head as another moan spilled out over Jim, this one belonging to Blair as Jim sucked, licked and toyed with Blair, bringing the younger man to the edge again and again, and finally a frantic, "Jimmmmm" was wrestled from desperate lips and Jim took him all the way, and it didn't take long as Blair's body tightened and he came, shuddering, into Jim's mouth. It was enough for Jim, this sight of Blair, in climax because of _him_ , and Jim came, his hold on Blair tightening, Blair's name ripped from his throat.

Jim just had the awareness to roll over, taking Blair with him so that Blair now rested on Jim and he found the weight comfortable, right, _necessary_.

Their breathing slowed as their hands continued to stroke, sweat and semen dried, and still they remained on the floor, enjoying the feel of their bodies against each other.

"Okay, that was good." Blair broke the silence.

"Only good?"

"Desperate, are we?"

"Need good words, need affirmation, need praise. Need now."

Blair's deep chuckle reverberated through Jim's chest and he smiled at the delicious feel of it. "Jim good. Jim very good. Jim may be the best."

"Ahem, _may_ be the best? And just how many men have gone down on you?"

"Counting you?"

"Sandburg!"

"One. If we count you."

"I count."

"I'm sure you do. I've seen you do it. And you don't have to use your toes either."

"You are dead meat."

"Jim? It's never been... like _that_. Never."

"Me either. We're kinda, _something_ together, aren't we?"

"Unbeatable. And just so you know? You're sexy as hell, Ellison."

"Ditto."

"Couch? Soft?"

"Bed. Softer."

*****

**Two Weeks Later:**

The Cascade Police Academy Class of September, 1999, finally graduated on a bright, sunny Saturday. Three weeks late, but graduate they did.

Commissioner Wilder officiated, but it was Mayor Tompkins who gave out the special award to one of graduating cadets. It was called the Lionel Hewitt Award, and it was rarely given. In the fifteen years since its inception, there had only been three receipients. Until now.

All diplomas had been given out, and Commissioner Wilder introduced the Mayor, who stepped up and addressed the assemblage. He expressed his gratitude at the courage of the new officers, and his understanding of the dangers of the task they were about to undertake, then he explained the Lionel Hewitt Award, named after a cadet who'd given his life to protect his fellow cadets during a horrendous riot that had scarred Cascade over fifteen years ago. He explained that the award was given whenever a cadet exhibited such courage.

Complete quiet descended on the gathering. Bodies leaned forward in expectation, and in the front row sat several members of the Major Crimes Department and in their middle sat a red haired woman, with Simon Banks on one side of her and James Ellison on the other.

"This year, we have just such a cadet. A young man whose bravery, quick thinking, and good judgment prevented a disaster, here on Academy grounds. All of you know the event of which I speak, so without further ado, it is my honor to present the Lionel Hewitt Award for exceptional courage to Detective Blair Jacob Sandburg."

The hall exploded in applause, but none louder or more energetic than the applause from the front row, as Detective Joel Taggert, Detective Henri Brown, Detective Brian Rafe, Inspector Megan Connor, Captain Simon Banks, Naomi Sandburg and Detective Jim Ellison stood, applauding wildly, whistling and cheering.

Blair accepted the award and his eyes searched and found his Sentinel.

Blair Sandburg was home.

 

The End 

  
**Disclaimer:** All characters from **The Sentinel** are the property of Pet Fly Productions, Danny Bilson and Paul DeMeo. Characters from any other television show, movie or book are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. We believe the works contained in this archive to be transformative in nature and therefore protected under the 'fair use' provisions of copyright law.

This story archived at <http://asr3.slashzone.org/archive/viewstory.php?sid=1271>


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